


Your Name Next to Mine

by nocturneblack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, POV Gendry, Reunion Fic, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-13 01:50:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9101041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturneblack/pseuds/nocturneblack
Summary: When Gendry asked Arya if she could find him a teacher, he didn't expect her to volunteer, figuring that she wouldn't want to waste her time teaching an illiterate bastard how to read and write.He also didn't expect to fall in love with her.





	1. Letters and Words

A sharp, short knock sounded against the door to Gendry’s forge. He moved quickly, crossing the space in great strides to open the door. Arya stood on the other side, her arms laden with large sheets of parchment, a jar of ink, and a variety of writing tools. She offered a curt greeting which he returned.

Gendry led her to the back and through the doorway that opened to his quarters. Arya set her things down on the floor, and then folded her legs beneath her to settle beside her materials. It was then that he noticed what she was wearing. She was clad in a modest, grey woolen dress. He had noticed that she wore Northern styled dresses on occasion since returning to Winterfell, and he had added it to his list of things that were different about her.

The dress had a high neckline but a feminine cut, accentuating her small waist and the flare of her hips. The color was striking against her pale skin and dark hair.

“So,” she began, her tone authoritative, “we should start with letters. Once you learn your letters we can move on to words.”

He nodded and took a seat on the floor next to her. She selected a piece of parchment and set it in front of them. She carefully dipped a large brush in the ink, then drew a shape on the parchment.

“This is an _A_ ,” she explained, then made the sounds that corresponded with the letter.

He remembered the conversation he had had with her, shortly after he had reached her in Winterfell. After the dissolution of the Brotherhood Gendry had rode north, hearing that there was work in Winterfell for anyone with a trade, as the war had taken its toll on the population. After he had caught up with Arya he had simply asked if she could find someone to teach him to read and write. She had indignantly told him that she could teach him herself, as if it were some sort of challenge, or as if he had insulted her intelligence. He had simply thought a highborn woman shouldn’t be wasting her time teaching a twenty-year-old bastard to be literate.

So there she sat, on the dirty floor of his room in the forge, her skirts spread about as her small hand moved fluidly to paint every letter onto the sheet of parchment, teaching him the sounds of each. When she finished she pointed to the letters one by one and told him to make the sounds. He didn’t do terribly, only forgetting a handful of them.

She left the sheet and the materials with him, telling him she would be back the next night.

“Wait,” he said as she reached the door, and he tentatively reached out, his fingertips just barely brushing her elbow. She turned her head, her eyes shifting upward to meet his. He felt his mouth go dry when he looked into cool, grey eyes.

Sometimes he felt as though a stranger had returned from Essos.

“Do you want me to walk you back to the castle?” he asked, nodding toward the now darkened night sky.

She took a step backward, her eyes still locked on his.

“You don’t need to treat me like a child,” she said, her voice like steel. “Or a simpering lady.”

Before he could argue with her she had walked off, her footsteps eerily silent in the snow.

\---x---

The next night went much like the first, her demeanor even more detached. It frustrated him to no end, and he slipped up on the letters and their sounds more than he had the night before. As a result she only made him repeat the letters and sounds over and over until he got each one right. She nodded once when she determined they were finished, once Gendry was thoroughly irritated with her, and she left with barely a word.

He slammed the door behind her. He knew it was childish, but her coldness toward him left him helpless. He figured he shouldn’t be surprised; it was the way she had acted toward him since he had come to Winterfell. At first he had thought she was merely acting with more care toward societal norms than she’d had when they were children. But as the weeks turned to months he’d realized that much more was cold and distant about her than he’d first thought.

The one time her icy demeanor had slipped was when he had asked what she had done in Essos. She’d told him, in as few words as possible, of Braavos and the Faceless Men, about becoming an assassin, and he could easily sense the regret she felt. And then her mask, having only slipped for a moment, was readjusted, and he did not see Arya when he looked in her eyes.

He seemed to only see her true nature— or what he believed to be her true nature— in small glimpses: when she laughed with Jon; when she threw herself into swordplay in the training yard; when he saw her speaking to the smallfolk of Winterfell. He found the true Arya in her interactions with others, but never when she was speaking to him. It was like she was making a personal effort to keep him locked out.

In the time between their lessons Gendry tempered his anger with shaping blades and armor, channeling his frustration through his hammer.

By their fifth lesson, when Arya had just begun to teach him basic, two-letter words, she was speaking to him as if they hadn’t been through any of the ordeals they had experienced together. He held his tongue and focused on her lesson, knowing it wasn’t his place to yell at a lady.

He forgot his place the next day.

He was just outside the forge, chopping logs with an axe for his hearth. It was snowing lightly, but Gendry found the cold refreshing as he swung the heavy blade. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arya approaching him. She wore a deep blue dress and held a long stick in her hands. She stopped right in front of him and moved the stick in the snow until she had spelled out a word there.

He ignored her, continuing to line up logs and swing the axe.

“Read the word,” she commanded.

He set the axe down, staring at her in disbelief.

“What?”

“The word I just wrote in the snow. It has three letters. I know you can read it, so read it.”

He couldn’t believe the nerve of her.

“What is your problem?” he said, his voice coming out louder and angrier than he had intended.

“Hurry up before the snow fills it in,” she said, her voice as hard as his.

Gendry looked down at the snow and saw the letters _C_ , _A_ , and _T_ written there.

“Cat, it says cat!” he shouted angrily after sounding out each letter in his head.

“Good,” she said. To his astonishment, she turned and started to walk away. He trailed after her, and suddenly he knew that they were going to have a proper fight. He didn’t dread it. He relished the opportunity to provoke any sort of reaction from her at all.

“What exactly was that all about, _milady_?” he sneered, knowing his use of the title was a sure-fire way to prod her temper. Since their reunion he had only ever called her that when they were in the presence of Jon or Sansa.

She whipped around, shooting him her sharpest glare.

_Good_ , he thought. _Let her be mad at me. Let her feel_ something _toward me._

“I’m teaching you, aren’t I?” she asked. “Aren’t I?”

“Yes. But that—”

“Well then I get to test you! Don’t you know how to be grateful?”

“I didn’t ask you to be my teacher!” he shouted. “I didn’t realize it was charity to you!”

She stormed away from him again, heading toward the Godswood. He didn’t let her get away, trailing after her as she made her way toward the forest.

“Arya,” he said roughly, and grabbed her around her upper arm, pulling her around to look at him. They were in the thick of the trees then, dead leaves that had fallen from branches and snow crunching under their feet. She pushed against his chest, hard, but he held on, grabbing her other arm with his other hand. She didn’t struggle in his grip. She may have been better with a sword, but she knew he was stronger than her.

“Let go of me,” she said between clenched teeth.

“No. Not until… not until you tell me why you act this way around me.”

“If my brother saw us he could have your head,” she hissed.

“Is that what you’re going to do? Tell your brother I attacked you in the woods?” He loosened his grip until it would be easy for her to walk away.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said, and he felt a tiny amount of relief to hear the familiar insult.

“Why do you only act this way around me?” he questioned desperately.

“What way?”

“Like you hardly know me! Like we didn’t go through hell together! Like you hate me!”

A flicker of an emotion that wasn’t anger (was it sadness? Hurt?) danced over her face, and then her mask was back in place, her features as blank as a sheet of freshly fallen snow.

“I don’t,” she said simply, then turned and walked briskly away from him. Gendry didn’t follow her this time. Instead he walked deeper into the woods, already regretting having yelled at her. He sat near the edge of a small, frozen pond as his anger dissolved.

He sat there, staring out at the icy surface of the water until his hands and ears grew cold. He figured himself to be as stupid as Arya had always said he was. He was thinking of what Jon would do if word reached him that a lowborn bastard had fought with his sister when Arya appeared next to him, having walked toward him in that silent way of hers, and sat beside him.

Wordlessly she leaned her head against his shoulder. He looked down at her, taking in the sight of her dark hair, pulled back in a braid. Her eyelashes were long and dark, and he thought she was closing her eyes. Heaving a sigh, Gendry reached over and grabbed one of her hands, reigniting the intimacy they had once shared as children. Her hand clutched his tightly.

“Before you came here I was doing a great job of pretending to be Arya again,” she said, her voice vacant of the severity he had heard earlier.

“And then you came, and it was like… like I was suddenly reminded all of the terrible things I did after I left you and the Brotherhood,” her voice was shaking and her hand was holding his so tightly it was nearly painful.

“And I… I try so hard to forget. And if you knew the things I’ve done, I— I think you’d hate me, Gendry, truly.”

“Listen to me, Arya. I could never hate you,” he said, his voice firm. “And you’re not pretending. You’re Arya Stark.”

He didn’t know what else to say, and the two of them stayed quiet for a while longer, until Gendry grew so cold that he moved to stand up, dragging Arya up by the hand. He dropped her hand once they were standing. She stared into his eyes, her expression vulnerable, her eyes wide.

“Will you walk me back to the castle?” she asked. He nodded, and the two of them began walking through the snow.

\---x---

Their lessons continued, with Arya coming to Gendry’s forge at sundown every other night.

As she watched him spell out a series of three letter words with the ink and brush, a question he hadn’t asked came to his mind.

“Where do you tell them you’re going when you come here?” he asked as he rounded out the top of a _P_. She laughed, and he smiled at the sound.

“I tell them I’m coming here to teach you to read and write.”

“They don’t mind you being here with me?” he asked, his tone careful. She grinned.

“Jon took issue with it at first, but Sansa told him it was very noble and kind-hearted of me. She knows how honorable you are. Plus she doesn’t know—” Arya abruptly stopped speaking, a light pink blush covering her cheeks.

“Know what?” Gendry asked slowly.

A small smile curved Arya’s lips as her gaze rose to meet his. Her eyes were unwavering, and he felt a bit like a rabbit being stared down by a fox. She held his eyes for a moment longer, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

She looked down at the parchment, breaking the spell, and asked him to spell a new word. The desire clouding his mind slowly faded as he put the brush to parchment.

In a few months’ time Gendry was stringing together simple sentences and reading children’s story books that Arya brought from the castle. The lessons had become the part of his day he looked forward to most. Arya had somehow become even dearer to him than she had been when he was five and ten. He knew the way he felt about her was dangerous, that a bastard and a lady had no business being together.

But the lessons— actually learning to read and write— gave him an excuse to find comfort and joy in her presence. Since their fight in the Godswood, Arya had slowly been tearing down the wall that had stood between them since they were reunited. She would look at him and smile so brightly that his heart would feel like it was going to burst right out of his chest. Or she would playfully bump her shoulder against his when he opened the door of the forge to let her in, and it made him feel like for once in his life he had someone who cared about him.

The closer they grew the more enthralled he became by her. He had thought her pretty once, when she had been stuffed in that acorn dress as a girl and they’d scrubbed all the dirt off of her. But that was nothing compared to her now; the years had transformed her into an elegant woman with a queer sort of beauty, her features both delicate and sharp. She was lithe and moved with a quiet grace, like an odd combination of warrior and dancer.

Gendry did his best to maintain an honorable way around her, but on the night when she came to the forge wearing a slightly lower cut dress than she typically wore and with her hair out of its usual braid he found that he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her.

Arya was kneeling on the floor, Gendry sitting beside her, leaning over a fresh sheet of parchment to write a word, saying the letters aloud as she went.

“ _G_ … _E_ … _N_ … _D_ … _R_ … _Y_ ,” she said. “ _Gendry_. That’s what your name looks like.”

She smiled up at him, and he had to wrench his eyes away from the small expanse of pale skin between her neck and the top of her dress. Gendry stared down at the letters on the sheet, finding it odd to see his name as a word.

“Now I’ll write my name,” she said. She dipped the brush in the ink once more and moved her hand until it was positioned below his name.

Feeling emboldened for reasons he couldn’t quite explain— perhaps it was the dress, perhaps it was the way her hair spilled down her back, perhaps it was the way her lips curved into a smile when she looked at him— he reached out to stay her hand with his own.

“Write your name next to mine,” he said softly, his face close to hers.

She did as he asked, writing _Arya_ right next to _Gendry_ on the page.

“Gendry and Arya,” he said, his eyes held firmly on hers. The reflection of the fire’s flames danced in the depths of her grey irises.

“Arya and Gendry,” she said with a tiny smirk. It seemed that she had moved closer to him, her arm touching his. Her eyes slipped down to stare at his mouth, and it was all Gendry needed.

He brought his face down to hers, pressing his lips to hers with more force than he had intended. Arya responded with vigor, grabbing his face with her small hands and moving her lips against his. He held her around the waist, his fingers digging into the thick fabric of her dress as she climbed into his laps, her legs moving to either side of his waist.

Gendry pulled his lips off of hers to run his lips and tongue over the smooth skin of her neck.

“Gendry, Gendry,” she panted, then dug her fingers in his hair to pull his mouth back to hers.

He pushed his tongue inside her mouth. He wanted to taste her, wanted to be consumed by her. She made a high moaning sound as her unpracticed tongue moved against his. It was rough and filled with need, and he kissed her until they were both breathless.

She pulled her mouth away from his, her chest heaving with deep, heavy breaths. Her cheeks and chest were flushed pink, and Gendry imagined what it would be like to undo the laces of her dress and open the bodice to run his fingers over the bare, untouched skin there.

She leaned forward to kiss him once more, tenderly this time, and her lips were impossibly soft and pliant beneath his.

“Arya,” he sighed, breathing her name like it was something precious, something sacred.

“I should get back,” she said, sounding as though she regretted saying it aloud.

He nodded, and she climbed out of his lap. He walked with her to the door, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.


	2. Words and Sentences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitors come to Winterfell, and there's an unexpected halt to Gendry's lessons.

The morning after Gendry kissed Arya he watched a small envoy from White Harbor approach the castle, the Manderly banner of a merman and trident flying in the air. Gendry thought little of it, as White Harbor was the only port city in the North and traded frequently with Winterfell. He only gave it more thought when Arya didn’t show for their lessons that night. When she failed to show the following five nights he figured it had something to do with the envoy.

By the end of the week, when he had still not seen Arya, he began to fear the worst, thinking that somehow Lord Jon had found out, and that any day now someone would be sent to geld him, or perhaps send him into exile.

When no one came for him he began to worry that something had happened to Arya, that she had fallen sick or been injured in a sparring match. But after two weeks had passed he caught a glimpse of her in the training yard, teaching a young boy how to stand side-face. He considered going to her, asking her why she hadn’t been to the forge. But if someone from the castle had somehow heard something, he didn’t want to draw further attention. So he kept his distance, staying away from her for the time being.

That was when the worst thought of them all began to sink in. After nearly three weeks without seeing her, Gendry began to think that Arya was choosing to stay away from him. He replayed the kiss in his head over and over, wondering if he had imagined the part where she had kissed him back.

The thought of him having done something to drive her away ate at him, threatening to drive him mad, and smithing became his only refuge. He threw himself into his work, fixing bent swords and dented armor, and began working on a pair of ornate twin daggers, all to try to keep his mind off of her.

After nineteen days had passed he saw her again.

Gendry was standing outside the forge, talking to a knight about the cost of swords when the knight suddenly stood up straighter, letting out a quick “milady” as he bowed his head.

She was striding toward the forge, carrying more parchment and another jar of ink. Gendry had to make a concentrated effort to not openly gape at her. She nodded to the knight, then smiled at Gendry before walking into the forge.

“I’ll leave you and the lady to it,” the knight said good-naturedly. “We’ll haggle another time.”

Gendry nodded as he turned to follow Arya into the forge. She was in the back already, setting up her parchment and ink on the floor. She looked up at him and smiled at him again.

“Where have you been?” he asked her gruffly, wholly taken aback by her nonchalant attitude. Her face assumed a blank expression.

“I’m sorry I’ve missed our lessons. There was a bit of extremely dull castle business that I had to take part in, unfortunately,” she explained cooly.

“Why didn’t you tell me that, then?” he said, trying not to shout at her. “I was worried about you,” he added.

Her eyes softened in an instant, and she stood up to face him. She brought her hand up to cup his cheek, her fingers brushing across the short beard there.

“I should have told you. And I’m sorry, Gendry. Sansa was keeping a close watch on me, as I’ve gotten out of these sorts of things before.”

Her grey eyes peered into his, imploring forgiveness. He gave it to her easily.

“Just… don’t do that again,” he sighed.

She shook her head as she pulled his face closer to her own, standing on her toes to press a soft, sweet kiss to his lips. She tasted like oranges.

She had him reading longer words, sounding them out and stringing together sentences. He had missed the lessons; he had missed learning, and the feeling of pride and accomplishment he felt when he did something she asked correctly.

When she left he tried not to dwell on the vague answer she gave him as reasoning for her three week absence. Arya had many secrets, he knew that much, and Gendry slept somewhat soundly that night by reasoning that she was entitled to some of them.

\---x---

He didn’t learn the truth of “castle business” until nearly a week later.

Gendry was walking Arya back to the castle, as he nearly always did after their nightly sessions. Without warning she grasped his arm and pulled him away from the entrance and away from the dutiful watch of the castle guards.

She pushed him against the cold stone wall, her lips finding his and kissing him with ferocity that made him momentarily freeze with shock before he reacted, one arm going around her waist as his other hand came up to cradle the back of her head.

Her tongue slipped into his mouth, pushing against his and causing a low growl to form in his throat.

He clutched her tighter, bringing her breasts flush against him. He pulled his lips away from hers to kiss the skin of her neck, the curve of her jaw, the slope of her collarbone.

He thought he heard her say something, and pulled away to give her a questioning stare. But she merely brought her lips to his once more, kissing him soundly.

“You should be getting inside now,” he told her.

“I don't like it when people tell me what to do,” she said playfully.

“Not even me?" he asked, returning her coy tone. She grinned.

“Especially not you,” she said before kissing him once more.

“Goodnight, Arya,” he said, his lips close to hers. He released his hold on her.

“Goodnight, Gendry.”

He turned and strode swiftly away from the castle before he could be tempted to kiss her and touch her again. His lips and fingers tingled with the feel of her as he walked.

He passed through the cluster of homes and shops wherein the smallfolk lived and worked.

He slowed down as he passed the bakery, savoring the smell of bread that still hung in the air.

“Gendry!” called the voice of the old, weathered baker, known simply as Old Rowan. He raised a leathery hand in greeting.

“Evening, Rowan,” said Gendry. The old man walked away from the door of the bakery, slowly making his way toward Gendry.

“Ya wouldn’t happen ta want a loaf, would ya?” Rowan asked, gesturing to the bag of only slightly stale bread under his arm.

“I’ll take one off your hands,” Gendry answered, always willing to accept free food.

“On your way back from the castle, eh?” Rowan asked as he handed the bread over.

“Aye,” Gendry replied.

“It’s nice of the Lady ta be willin’ ta teach ya,” Rowan said, a small smile appearing on his wrinkled face.

Gendry nodded his agreement.

“I reckon that’ll be one of the last lessons for ya, then.”

Gendry stared at the old man in confusion.

“On account of her betrothal, and all,” Rowan explained.

“Betrothal?” Gendry asked, his voice low and tight as panic shot through him.

“Aye, ta one of the Manderlys. Few of ‘em came up from White Harbor— when was that now… oh, ‘bout three weeks ago or so— ta ask for Lady Arya’s hand. They haven't announced it yet, but we all have heard the talk.”

“Didn’t know that,” Gendry muttered, tightening his grip on the bread. He thanked Rowan and left before the old man could get another word in.

He stomped through the snow, throwing open the door to the forge and storming to his quarters in the back. His heart was hammering in his rib cage, his pulse thrumming in his ears. A burning fury rose from deep in the pit of his stomach, and he tasted bile on his tongue.

She was betrothed. That was why she had stayed away from him for so long. She had probably only come back because she pitied him. Gendry’s stomach turned as he thought of how she had just kissed him by the castle. She was betrothed to another man and she had kissed him, kissed him like some sort of farewell to the affair.

He should’ve never been so stupid. He thought it over and over again, thought how foolish it was to believe that she could be his in some way. He cursed himself for allowing her in, he cursed Arya for giving him the lessons herself, and he cursed Sansa and Jon for allowing it.

Gendry rifled through the stacks of parchment on the floor and his small table until he found the sheet he was looking for.

He clenched the parchment tightly in his hands, crumpling the edges. He read the words there over and over again, suddenly hating that he could make sense of the inky shapes.

He walked to the fireplace, staring into the blaze as his anger cooled and settled into grief.

He threw the parchment in the fire, watching the flames consume the words _Arya_ and _Gendry._

\---x---

He woke up the next morning resolved to go about his day as usual. He lit the fires of the forge, fetched water, and set it to boil over the flames. He dressed for the day, donned his heavy apron, and picked up the metal tongs and steel hammer. He let his mind empty until he thought of nothing but heat and metal.

The sound of hammer on steel filled the forge. Gendry worked for hours, only stopping when the fires started to get low.

He repeated all of this the next day. When the sun became low in the sky Gendry barred the door to the forge. He knew that Arya would come to his door, expecting them to continue their lessons. He wondered how long she would have let it go on until she told him. Would she have waited until her wedding day?

He returned to his quarters, hoping he could find sleep before he heard her knocking. He lay awake instead, and when he heard her knock on his door he shut his eyes, willing her to turn around and go back to the castle.

The knocking turned to pounding, and he could hear her calling his name, her voice irate.

Gendry stayed in his bed, his heart thundering against his chest, waiting for her to leave.

After what felt like an eternity the pounding stopped.

\---x---

Three days after he learned of her betrothal she came to his forge in the middle of the day, catching him off guard while he was working.

He was filing away at the handle of a sword when she burst through the door. The sound startled him, and he nearly strained his neck from looking up so quickly.

Arya’s face held a cold, calm fury, and her hand was on the hilt of her sword.

Gendry stood from where he sat on his bench, setting the handle and the file down.

“Where in the seven hells were you last night?” she demanded, her voice low and dangerous.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, not meeting her eye. She didn’t acknowledge that he had spoken.

“I stood outside and pounded on your door and you didn’t answer!”

“I didn’t answer because I didn’t know how to tell you that you can’t come here anymore.”

“What?!” Shock and anger danced over her face as she took a step closer to him.

“And just why not?” she demanded, her mask of cool fury gone, replaced by boiling outrage.

“It’s hardly proper,” he bit out, hating that she seemed to want him to say it aloud.

“Oh, fuck propriety!” she shouted. “That didn’t matter to you before.”

Gendry snapped.

“You weren’t betrothed before!” he roared at her, his anger from the past few days flaring back to life like a rekindled fire.

Arya’s eyes widened minutely before narrowing in anger again.

“What are you talking about?”

Her playing dumb only made him angrier.

“ _Castle business_ , Arya?” he spat, standing so close that he had to look down at her.

“You lied to me! You didn’t tell me that the Manderlys came for _you_.”

Guilt, or something close to it, showed on her face.

“I’m not betrothed, you idiot,” she said. A sheen of sweat, a result of both the heat of the forge and her yelling, had broken out on her face.

“Don’t lie to me—”

“One of Lord Manderly’s nephews asked for my hand,” she yelled over him.

“When I refused, Sansa demanded that I think it over. She and Jon ordered me to stay at the castle, to keep me away from you,” she explained.  

“And after enough time had passed for Sansa’s liking I refused again. And I told Jon that I would say no to a thousand men before I would even let the idea of marriage enter my mind for a single moment,” she bit out, her expression fierce and tears shining in her grey eyes.

Gendry shook his head, knowing what she was trying to tell him, knowing why she had said such a thing to Jon.

“You don’t mean that,” he told her.

“Yes I do!” she shouted up at him. She gripped both of his arms above the elbow.

“I mean it, Gendry,” she repeated, her face utterly serious.

“You _can’t_ , Arya,”

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” she said heatedly. “Don’t tell me that I can’t—” she stopped herself, her eyes searching his.

“Arya,” he said, his voice somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.

“I love you, Gendry.”

He shook his head, unable to speak.

“I will never be another man’s wife because I love _you_.”

He could see the tears in her eyes more clearly now, glistening like ice.

“We can’t,” he said, loathing himself for saying it. “You know that.”

All of her anger and fury was gone, and her face told nothing but desperation. She gripped his arms tighter, her fingers turning black from his sooty skin.

“I don’t care!” she pleaded.

“You should care! Maybe nothing will happen to you but your brother will send me away or have me hanged! Is that what you want?”

She shook her head.

“Jon wouldn’t…”

“Get the hell out of here, Arya,” he growled, hoping to anger her.

It worked.

She pulled her hands away before shoving them against his chest.

“For someone so concerned with being a bastard, being a coward doesn’t seem to bother you very much!" she shouted, her chest heaving. Her voice dropped to a hiss.

“Be a coward your whole life, then,” she said coldly as she turned away from him.

He watched as she left the forge, willing himself to stay put as the soft crackle of the fire became deafening in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all enjoying the story! The next and final chapter is written, I just need to type it up. Reviews are lovely!
> 
> -K


	3. Sentences and Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry has a revelation. Has he learned this lesson too late?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the last chapter, everyone. Also, here's where that M rating kicks in.

In the weeks after their fight in the forge, Gendry could hardly recall the passing of time. He became devoted to routine. He woke early in the day, eating a small breakfast of porridge before beginning his work in the forge, tending to a litany of hinges and bolts and cauldrons for the castle. At midday he took a break to chop wood for the fires, and at the end of the day he ate another meal. At night he read by candle light, rereading the children’s books Arya had given him. He tried to read nightly, as he began to fear that he would lose the ability if he didn’t keep up with it.

He repeated this routine every day for weeks, and was only startled out of it when he noticed small, blue flowers springing up from the ground in patches. Spring had arrived at last, the sharp wind becoming slightly less harsh and noticeably warmer.

A feast to celebrate the passing of winter was held at the castle, and as the castle blacksmith Gendry had been invited. He donned the pair of breeches that were slightly less worn than the others he owned and a clean shirt, preparing to make his way to the castle.

It was the first time he had seen her in weeks, possibly months. She was seated at the high table, and he glanced up at her from time to time as he ate his food. Her hair was gathered at the back of her head in an intricate array of braids, leaving the back of her neck exposed.

She was beautiful.

She looked like a lady.

There was an unsettling expression on her face, something between sadness and the blank, mask-like stare she used to look at him with.  

He told himself that things were as they should be as he left the feast, clinging to that notion as the image of the sadness marking her face nagged at him.

\---x---

A few days passed and Gendry saw her again, this time just outside the castle. He was making his way toward the keep, a bag packed with small metalwork for the castle in hand. She stood in the training yard, watching two young boys spar as she leaned against a fence post. She wore breeches and a tunic, and her hair was back in its simple braid. He watched her as she watched the boys dueling, and he noted that she barely seemed interested. On her face was that same mixture of sadness and cold numbness.

She turned then, as if she could feel Gendry staring at her— and perhaps she could, perhaps that was another thing she had learned in Braavos— and her eyes met his for a moment before he looked away.

_Be a coward your whole life then._

Her harsh words rang in his head the rest of the day, following him back to the forge.

Didn’t she understand? How could she not see that loving each other would get them nowhere?

Arya had never played by society’s rules, Gendry knew that much. He knew that she would continue to refuse matches, at least for the time being, and that she would never live the life of a proper lady. What had her convinced that being with him would make her life any better?

He thought back to their conversation by the pond in the Godswood as he lay in bed that night. He thought about what she had said, about pretending to be Arya. Is that what she was doing again, now that they had stopped seeing one another?

He thought of how cold and stoic she had appeared at the feast and in the yard, such a distinct difference from the way she had been with him, on the floor of his room, writing her name next to his and crawling into his lap to kiss him.

Gendry had always thought of himself as selfish when he considered the dynamics of their relationship. He was the bastard smith soiling the highborn lady for his own need and desire.

And he had always figured Arya to be self-sufficient, completely independent of the support of others. He supposed that in many ways that was true; she had, after all, survived her time in Braavos completely alone.

But as Gendry recalled the expression that had seemingly taken up permanent residence on her face since she left his forge the last time, he thought for the first time that perhaps there _was_ someone that Arya needed.

When dawn broke he sprang from bed, walked to his table and found a fresh sheet of parchment. Dipping a quill in ink he wrote slowly and precisely, knowing his handwriting was far from neat. The short message took him a while to complete, as he had to pause to consider his spelling several times. When he was finished and the ink had tried he looked for something to seal his message with. He found a bit of twine and tied it around the tightly rolled parchment.

He nearly ran to the castle, and smiled despite himself when he found a servant girl trudging toward the castle door with a pale of water in hand.

“Oi!” he called, and ran to meet her.

She turned around, a frightened expression on her face. She was young, no older than two and ten, and seemed thoroughly startled by a man as large as Gendry running toward her.

“Don’t look so scared, I’ve only got a favor to ask,” he said, trying to keep his voice gentle and soft. “Do you know where Lady Arya’s room is?”

“Y-yes,” she said, her large brown eyes staring up at him. “I’m taking this water there now.”

“Excellent,” Gendry said, smiling at the young girl. “Can you take this to her?” He held out the rolled up message.

The girl took the paper with her free hand. She smiled at him as she nodded, no longer seeing him as a threat.

“Thank you,” he said, relieved that he didn’t have to bribe her, but still wishing to pay her for the favor.

“If you ever need something from the smithy just stop by. I owe you. A bracelet, mayhaps?” He thought of the small assortment of bronze jewelry he had crafted.

The servant girl’s eyes lit up as she smiled toothily.

“A dagger,” she said. Gendry laughed, reminded of when he had first met Arya.

“Very well then,” he said. “Go on.”

The girl walked hurriedly to the castle doors.

Gendry made his way back to the forge, prepared to wait.

At noon he made his way to the Godswood, hoping she would meet him at the pond as he had requested in the note. He didn’t observe the old gods, and he found little comfort in the carved faces in the weirwood trees as he passed through the forest. The air was exceptionally warm, and he enjoyed being able to walk outside with only a woolen tunic instead of a heavy cloak.

As soon as the pond came into view he saw her. Long, dark hair, pulled back in a plait, stood out against the light grey bodice of a wool dress.

He walked to the pond and sat beside her, suddenly realizing that he hadn’t exactly planned what he wanted to say to her. Glancing down at their feet he noticed a patch of snow near the water’s edge, and an idea formed in his mind.

Using his finger, he wrote his name in the snow.

She turned her head to look at him for the first time since he had sat down beside her. Her sharp eyes held a question. He simply nodded, not wanting to break the silence between them. She glanced at his name in the snow a moment longer, then reached out and traced her own name, right next to his.

He reached out and gripped her hand then, holding it loosely, giving her the chance to pull away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her.

She clutched his hand tightly. Wordlessly they moved toward one another, his free hand reaching out to cup her cheek as he kissed her. Her lips moved eagerly against his, their absence from one another apparent in the way her hands came up to clutch at his tunic. He pulled away from her after a moment, kissing her quickly before breathing her name.

“I suppose I’m done being a coward now,” he said, and she let out a soft laugh.

“I missed you,” she said softly. He waited for her to continue.

“Being with you makes me feel like I’m just Arya. Not Lady Stark, or a pawn to be traded for a marriage.”

She paused, staring out at the partially frozen water.

“I was no one for so long, Gendry. And you were beginning to make me feel like _me_ , again.”

She turned to stare directly at him.

“Don’t take that away from me again.”

“I won’t,” he swore.

Arya kissed him again, her tongue pushing past his lips and licking into his mouth. She pushed him so that his back was flat on the ground, climbing atop him to kiss his neck and nip at his jaw. He could feel himself growing hard, and the weight of her on top of him only fueled his arousal. His hands gripped her hips and ran across her back, wanting to feel every inch of her.

“We can’t do this here,” he panted.

“Then take me back to your bed,” she said against his neck.

He stood up abruptly, pulling her up with him roughly.

They nearly ran to the forge, only slowing to walk past the other homes and shops.

Once in the forge he grasped her hand and pulled her to his room at the back. He brought his lips down to hers, and she walked them until his back was to the wall, like it had been when he’d walked her to the castle all those nights ago.

Her hands pushed up beneath his tunic and the thin shirt he wore beneath it, running over the hard planes of his abdomen. Gendry’s breath caught in his throat. Her mouth sucked at his neck as her hands explored him.

He clutched at the back of her gown, fingering the laces that ran up her back. Tentatively he began to loosen them. Moving swiftly, her hands yanked up his shirt and tunic in one go, tossing the garments to the floor.

Emboldened by her forwardness, Gendry loosened the laces even more, exposing her shift. Arya pulled away from him, grasping the neckline of her dress and pulling. Somewhat awkwardly she got out of the sleeves, shimmying out of the bodice and pushing it down to her waist. Reaching behind her, she undid the laces even further, until she was stepping out of the dress, leaving her in nothing but a thin, long shift. He could see the color of her skin through the white material, the dark pink of her nipples drawing his eye.

His fingers skimmed over the fabric until he touched her, his hand resting at her side where her waist curved inward. She gazed up at him, her lips red and parted and her cheeks flushed.

He realized then that he hadn’t seen her appear so ordinary since their time together as children. Her hair was coming free from its braid, with pieces framing her face and resting on her shoulders. Gendry reached out and pulled her braid from behind her back. He carefully untied the small strip of leather that held it together. He ran his fingers through her hair, watching as soft waves spilled over her shoulder and down her chest.

She moved closer to him, standing on tip-toe to kiss him. Her fingers brushed over his abdomen, just above the waist of his breeches.

“Arya,” he gasped. Though her fingers were warm they caused a shiver to course over him.

“Is this what you want?” he managed to choke out.

She nodded.

“Are you sure?” he asked, every instinct he possessed telling him to shut up.

“Gendry,” she said, her voice unlike he had ever heard it before. How could someone so hard be so soft?

“I’ve taught you a lot, haven’t I?” she questioned.

He nodded slowly.

“I’ve taught you the letters, and how to read them, and how to write them.”

She paused, her hand moving further down until it rested on the bulge in his breeches.

Gendry could hardly contain a groan.

“Don’t you think you owe me something in return?” she asked. He swore softly under his breath, unable to focus on anything but her hand.

“I think there are things that _you_ could teach _me_ ,” she breathed into his ear.

He pulled her hand away then, grabbing her and turning her until her back was against the wall. He pressed his body against hers, amazed once again by how soft she was when out of the confines of a heavy dress.

He kissed her wildly, fiercely, wanting for once to be unashamed to love her.

Her hands clutched at his muscled back as his lips and tongue moved over her neck and chest. Her breath came in soft gasps when he bunched the shift at her waist before pulling it over her head. He pressed his torso to hers as he kissed her, relishing the warmth between their bare skin. He pulled away slightly so that his hands could cup her breasts, and he watched her face contort with pleasure as he teased their peaks.

He moved one hand lower still, skimming over her stomach and dipping into her small clothes to touch her. She cried out when one of his fingers slipped against her folds, feeling her wetness. He kissed her as he stroked her with his fingers, his tongue pushing into her mouth and mimicking the way his fingers were pushing into her.

When she reached out and began tugging at the laces of his breeches he picked her up, carrying her easily to his small mattress. With her help he pulled off her small clothes, leaving her naked on his bed.

She didn’t look at all like a lady or a stranger. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips were swollen, her thighs were parted, and her eyes blazed with unbridled desire for him. She was just Arya. His Arya.

While she had been patient in teaching him, working slowly and steadily, Gendry found that he could hardly match her in that regard. He forced himself to slow down as he undid his laces and pulled down his breeches and small clothes, his cock springing free.

He saw no fear behind her eyes, only eagerness as she looked up at him. He climbed over her, nudging her legs further apart and kissing her softly before pushing his length into her.

If she felt any pain she hid it well, her expression staying mostly unchanged. He tried his best to move slowly, acquainting her with the feeling of him being inside of her. Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer. While one arm braced his weight, he placed his other hand behind her knee to pull her thigh up around his waist. She made a short, high sound of surprise and pleasure.

Her watched her face the entire time their sweat-slicked bodies writhed and moved together, save for when she wrapped her arms around his neck to pull him down until his face was at the junction of her neck and shoulder. Her body was responding to his now, learning how to move against him in a way that made them both cry out.

“I love you,” he said gruffly against the side of her neck. “I love you, I love you,” he repeated desperately.

He held off as long as he could, wanting to show her and teach her and make her feel _more_ , but she was pressing him so tightly to her, and the noises that spilled from her mouth were loud and unrestrained now— moans and shouts mixed among cries of his name— and her cunt was clenching and squeezing him, and he knew he couldn’t last much longer.

He pulled out of her— forcibly, his hands pushing her roughly away— at the last moment, coming against her thigh in thick, hot spurts.

He rolled off of her and sprung from the bed, finding a rag in the forge to clean her thigh with, leaving it free of his seed but streaked with soot. Just as he was about to apologize she spoke.

“Lay beside me.”

He did as she asked, lying on his side on the small bed as she rolled closer to him. Both of them were still panting.

“You’re good at that,” she said against his chest. He laughed against her hair.

\---x---

She was laughing. How long had it been since he’d seen her really laugh?

She laughed as she moved about the small clearing, picking little blue flowers as she went.

 _Like a girl in a song_ , he thought.

The handles of the twin daggers he’d made for her gleamed from their spot on her hip.

 _Not like a girl in a song at all_ , he corrected himself.

She’d tripped him as they came upon the clearing, causing the laughter that still bubbled out of her.

Gendry was sure that he loved her. He had spent the last few weeks learning her the way he had learned his letters, starting slowly, with small pieces of information that he committed to memory.

He had learned she preferred to have her hair plaited, and he had learned how to plait it, so that when her hair came loose beneath his hands he could fix it for her before she left the forge.

He had learned that she started wearing dresses because the colors and styles were similar to the ones her mother had worn, though far more plain, and wearing them made her feel like she was honoring her mother in some small way.

He had learned where and how she liked to be touched, and spent a great deal of time just running his hand over her bare skin, memorizing the spots that made her gasp or shiver. He memorized the way her face looked when she told him she loved him and the way it looked when she came undone on his bed.

“You should try to be lighter on your feet you big bull,” she called to him.

“Not everyone is a waif of a girl like you are,” he teased, rising to his feet.

Her face assumed that familiar cold, blank expression. It made him think of when she had been Faceless.

“Arya,” he said, walking toward her. Her eyes met his, but he still saw a stranger.

“Arya,” he repeated, his hands coming up to cup her face.

Like storm clouds moving past the sun her eyes cleared in an instant, and a small smile tugged at her lips. The spring winds whipped through her hair, making the dark strands look as though they were dancing in mid-air.

He brought his lips down to hers and kissed her sweetly. He felt her smile against him, and he pulled back so that he could see it.

“Gendry,” she said, her voice rising above and then dissipating into the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope it was just as fun to read. Thank you for reading and/or reviewing!
> 
> -K

**Author's Note:**

> This story will be three chapters long. The next chapter will be up very soon! Leave me a review and let me know what you think so far.
> 
> -K


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